My roots run deep in the state of Maine. For over 100 years, my family has lived and vacationed in the foothills of the White Mountains near the western boarder. So when the world ended (or at least, seemed like it might) there was only one place I could think to go.

My partner and I spent the Covid pandemic hunkered in a small cottage at the end of a worn dirt road in Fryeburg, Maine. As a lifelong photographer, I knew this moment in time was begging to be documented, that it had a greater meaning to explore. So I went exploring.

Through countless day trips and dozens of roles of film, I discovered the perfect subject to encapsulate my experience. I’d grown up going to the nearby Fryeburg Fair, endlessly fascinated by its depiction of farming as a type of circus act, nature as a thrilling show. Now, I was entranced by what remained when that show was cancelled for the first time in its 150-year history.

The fair grounds and its structures ceased to perform their functions during the eight days a year when they had any, instead becoming monuments to humanity’s hubris. Rows of buildings, divided, organized, and labeled by the way in which we make use of nature, sat empty before a breathtaking view. All because this year, a new form of nature was making use of us.

Twelve months later, in October 2021, I went back to the Fair. This time, with my fellow humans pushing past their natural limits.

*This series is a work-in-progress with more to be added.